And competitive.
Facing the grill again, he loosened the foil covering the two fat burgers, then slid each one onto the grate with a smoky sizzle. “The perfect sound: beef over heat.”
“Pretty near the perfect aroma, too.” Fia pushed to her feet, nudged Mouse with her toes, then laughed before joining him. “I’ve never been much of a burger griller.”
“Aw, it’s easy. First you start with your own grass-fed beef, tomatoes off your vines, and onions so fresh that there’s still clumps of dirt clinging to them.”
“You didn’t grow any of this,” she pointed out.
“Nope, you’re right. But back in the day, that’s how we did it. Grandma made the buns, and Aunt Amy made the cheese with milk from her own cows, no kidding. The only thing they ever bought was the mustard and the mayonnaise. Even the pickles were homegrown and canned.”
“Let’s see, hamburgers in my family back in the day meant unwrapping the paper and biting into a piece of mystery meat, a squirt of mustard and one of ketchup, and a single slice of pickle. If you wanted cheese, they slapped on a cold slice just before they wrapped it and handed it to you.”
Elliot gave her a phony pitying look. “That’s just damn sad. You should have grown up in West Texas, where people know how to eat right.” And live right. And, especially, treat their kids right. He hated the casual, straightforward way she’d thrown out comments about her family: There was nothing in Florida to go back to. I never really expected anyone to want me because my mom and my dad sure didn’t. As if they were simple facts of life, deserving no more importance than any other detail.
Tamping back that annoyance, he continued with the same phony tone. “I take it your mother didn’t like to cook.”
“She preferred a liquid diet most of the time. Food was just one more thing she didn’t bother with, along with housekeeping and working.”
And child-rearing. What a shame.
To shake off the gloom that line of thought brought, he pointed to the burgers with the pancake turner. “Rare, medium, shoe leather, or in between?”
“Medium well. I’m not a fan of any pink food except strawberries mashed with vanilla ice cream.”
“Home-churned ice cream and served with a thick slice of fresh-baked angel food cake.”
She gave him a look. “Or those little round sponge cakes that come four to a package and are usually piled next to the berries in the produce section.”
“Man, you’re killing me here. Your life has been so deprived.”
To his surprise, she shifted until her shoulder bumped his. It was similar to a thousand nudges Emily had given him growing up, but it felt like a whole different universe. “Yeah, but I also didn’t have to get up at oh-dark-thirty to feed cows and horses and chickens.”
“Can’t-see,” he murmured. When she glanced at him, brows lifted, he shrugged. “That’s what Grandma called it. You work on a ranch from can’t-see to can’t-see. Dawn to dusk.” For a moment, he concentrated on the food, removing the zucchini and portobellos from the grill, testing the doneness of the burgers with the press of the pancake turner, sliding the buns over the heat. He’d learned the perfect timing of burgers and buns years ago, always finishing one just as the other was ready for it. It was his singular talent, Emily claimed. That, and being every female’s knight in shining armor.
Hey, some men had a lot less to offer than perfectly timed food and a stand-up guy complex.
Within five minutes, they were back in the house, Fia helping him gather condiments, napkins, and plates. Once everything was on the small dining table that separated the living room from the kitchen, he presented her with one medium-well-done portobello-mozzarella-onion burger on a perfectly grilled bun.
“This smells incredible. Why didn’t you go to culinary school?” she asked as she spread mustard and mayo, added lettuce and pickle, then took her
Facing the grill again, he loosened the foil covering the two fat burgers, then slid each one onto the grate with a smoky sizzle. “The perfect sound: beef over heat.”
“Pretty near the perfect aroma, too.” Fia pushed to her feet, nudged Mouse with her toes, then laughed before joining him. “I’ve never been much of a burger griller.”
“Aw, it’s easy. First you start with your own grass-fed beef, tomatoes off your vines, and onions so fresh that there’s still clumps of dirt clinging to them.”
“You didn’t grow any of this,” she pointed out.
“Nope, you’re right. But back in the day, that’s how we did it. Grandma made the buns, and Aunt Amy made the cheese with milk from her own cows, no kidding. The only thing they ever bought was the mustard and the mayonnaise. Even the pickles were homegrown and canned.”
“Let’s see, hamburgers in my family back in the day meant unwrapping the paper and biting into a piece of mystery meat, a squirt of mustard and one of ketchup, and a single slice of pickle. If you wanted cheese, they slapped on a cold slice just before they wrapped it and handed it to you.”
Elliot gave her a phony pitying look. “That’s just damn sad. You should have grown up in West Texas, where people know how to eat right.” And live right. And, especially, treat their kids right. He hated the casual, straightforward way she’d thrown out comments about her family: There was nothing in Florida to go back to. I never really expected anyone to want me because my mom and my dad sure didn’t. As if they were simple facts of life, deserving no more importance than any other detail.
Tamping back that annoyance, he continued with the same phony tone. “I take it your mother didn’t like to cook.”
“She preferred a liquid diet most of the time. Food was just one more thing she didn’t bother with, along with housekeeping and working.”
And child-rearing. What a shame.
To shake off the gloom that line of thought brought, he pointed to the burgers with the pancake turner. “Rare, medium, shoe leather, or in between?”
“Medium well. I’m not a fan of any pink food except strawberries mashed with vanilla ice cream.”
“Home-churned ice cream and served with a thick slice of fresh-baked angel food cake.”
She gave him a look. “Or those little round sponge cakes that come four to a package and are usually piled next to the berries in the produce section.”
“Man, you’re killing me here. Your life has been so deprived.”
To his surprise, she shifted until her shoulder bumped his. It was similar to a thousand nudges Emily had given him growing up, but it felt like a whole different universe. “Yeah, but I also didn’t have to get up at oh-dark-thirty to feed cows and horses and chickens.”
“Can’t-see,” he murmured. When she glanced at him, brows lifted, he shrugged. “That’s what Grandma called it. You work on a ranch from can’t-see to can’t-see. Dawn to dusk.” For a moment, he concentrated on the food, removing the zucchini and portobellos from the grill, testing the doneness of the burgers with the press of the pancake turner, sliding the buns over the heat. He’d learned the perfect timing of burgers and buns years ago, always finishing one just as the other was ready for it. It was his singular talent, Emily claimed. That, and being every female’s knight in shining armor.
Hey, some men had a lot less to offer than perfectly timed food and a stand-up guy complex.
Within five minutes, they were back in the house, Fia helping him gather condiments, napkins, and plates. Once everything was on the small dining table that separated the living room from the kitchen, he presented her with one medium-well-done portobello-mozzarella-onion burger on a perfectly grilled bun.
“This smells incredible. Why didn’t you go to culinary school?” she asked as she spread mustard and mayo, added lettuce and pickle, then took her
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